


Birthday Presents

by Shadowstar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, POV Greg, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg doesn't particularly want to observe this particular birthday. But then John changes his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bingo Card

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo on Tumblr, under the slot of 'Midnight'. 
> 
> Un-beta'd, un-britpicked. If anyone notices anything, let me know so I can fix it!!

 


	2. Birthday Presents

It doesn’t take a genius to completely understand what today is. And even the two geniuses that Greg knows—geniuses in their own way, really, for all that they most definitely are _not_ good with people—are most adamantly silent. Apparently, they’d gotten the hint for this year, that he doesn’t want anything; no well-wishes, no hoopla, just _nothing_. The silence is more of a present than anything he could have hoped for. 

Especially when his phone remains silent, as well. 

The other yarders seem to get the memo, too, that he doesn’t want anything extravagant; that he desperately needs a day to himself. That after this _awful_ year he’s had, what he needs is to take a moment and just _breath_ e. He does, of course, get a card filled with glitter, but he would expect nothing less from Dimmock and Donovan, considering they were at the forefront of this year’s pranking wars.

The office had to keep itself in high spirits, somehow, after all. 

But despite all of that, he is left alone. For once, he’s actually getting what he wants; just a quiet day that is rather frustrating considering how many bloody _forms_ he has to fill out after the last case. It’s not a surprise, and it would have had to have been done some time, it just seems rather poor form that it happens today. All par for the course, though, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t use today as an excuse to get out of it. Instead, he takes it far more as a challenge than anything else. That, rather than taking the day off, he has come into work, and if that means that he gets a few reproachful looks from a few of the other DIs, well. Maybe they should take a few pages out of his book. 

Over all, the day passes quite quickly and with no troubles. It’s a bit of a miracle, really, that he manages to get out of there on time, with little fuss. He gets a few well-wishes for his evening, but none aimed at the date or the passing of another year of his life, and he takes the small victories where he can get them. 

It seems quite on track, then, that he has a quiet meal of fish and chips complete with a pint of lager down the road from his quiet flat in the pub he mostly comes to on game days, or when he can’t be bothered to heat up something out of the cupboard. No one here knows what today is, thank god, so no one pays him any mind, other regulars going about their usual conversations, the ambiance creating its own kind of silence, though it seems rather an oxymoron to think such a thing in such a loud space. 

But it is oddly peaceful, either way, to be surrounded by so much noise and to have none of it directed at him. And that, he thinks, is the _true_ miracle, there. 

Some few hours later, he finds himself heading back home, but he’s not tired. Strangely enough, he feels almost _wired_ , even though he hasn’t had a drop of coffee or tea since his last cup at half seven, just before he left the office, and it was nearing eleven, now. 

It comes as no surprise, though, that he finds himself at home and with no will to do anything, for all his pent up energy. Maybe he _should_ have let someone do something, throw some kind of party or other. But the moment he thinks of a party, he thinks of Clarissa, and he rather does _not_ want to be thinking of his bloody ex-wife on his _birthday_. Frustrated, he turns to the kitchen, and finds himself cleaning the few dishes that had been left in the sink, then the stove, and finally wiping down the counters. He’s just about ready to move onto the fridge, to go through the bloody thing, when there’s a knock at the door. 

At first, given the quiet of his flat—dark, except for the light in the kitchen where he was scrubbing away, still dressed in the cheap suit he wore for work in the office and while investigating—he thought he might have been hearing things. But given that there is a second knock, firmer this time, _louder_ , he can’t ignore it forever. Eyebrows shooting up, he blinks slightly scratchy eyes at the clock. 

Fifteen til. What the bloody hell was someone doing at his door at fifteen til midnight? 

A frown crossing his tanned face, he removes the gloves he’d been wearing to clean, not bothering to unroll his shirt cuffs as he pushes a hand through silvered hair, heading to the door. He pulls it open just as his visitor—unexpected and, though he’d never admit it, _wanted_ —is raising his hand to knock again. 

Blond. Shorter fellow. Blue eyes that vary in color, based on mood and lighting, from deep sapphire to bright cornflower. And, no, he has _not_ been studying John Watson’s eyes, thanks. 

“John!” He blurts, uncertain, feeling more than a little bit out of his depth as he stands in his doorway, still dressed in work attire but smelling faintly of cleaning solution. He watches as the shorter man’s eyebrows shoot up, lips parting for a moment, as though to speak, but he beats John to it. 

“What’re you doing here?” 

“Ah, sorry.” It seems to take a minute, but John comes back to himself, flashing him a smile, raising the bag he has in his hand. A few bottles of beer clink together with a rustle of plastic and paper with the motion, giving evidence to John’s purchases. “Couldn’t stand the silence anymore, and figured I’d break Sherlock’s rules and just… well, come and see you. Wish you a proper happy birthday.” 

For a whole second, his thoughts are unkind and rather rude. Rude enough, in fact, that he pushes them away almost immediately and resolutely promises himself never to think such things about John ever again. But as he does so, that second passes, and he’s left feeling oddly _touched_ by the gesture that John has put forth. No one else had dared to break the silence; he isn’t even sure who delivered the card from the Yarders, considering it’d been slid under his door well before he’d arrived at work, a feat he is sure was rewarded in some fashion or another. 

It’s rather easy, then, to let John into his flat, motioning him inside with a mock bow that earns a huff in return, and a gentle, playful nudge to get out of the way. He growls under his breath and takes an answering swipe at John, earning a laugh as the shorter man dances out of the way, moving further into the flat that John had helped him move into. It’d just been John, Sally, and Paul helping him out at the time, which part of him is rather grateful for. 

There is a larger part that isn’t so grateful when he remembers how the three of them had got on with their heckling early into the move, picking and snipping like school children, only to turn around and turn the ire on him if he tried to intervene. Eventually, he’d let them have at it, since no one’s tempers were honestly being touched. And, besides which, it was nice to see John getting on with Sally and Paul, for all that he knows that John’s only ever been exposed to Paul Dimmock a total of once, thanks to Sherlock. 

He still has a picture of the three of them, slightly flushed from carrying in the heavy dining room table up three flights of awful stairs, holding beers and leaning against the back of the couch, all three of them grinning at a job well done. He’d caught it with them unawares, their grins easy, relaxed. He rather wishes that Sherlock had been there for that; the kid would have looked a bit out of place, but it would have been nice to see him in amongst the others, or for the missing man to at least seeing _John_ happy. 

Of course, this isn’t the first time he’s had such a thought. But he’s trying not to put too much thought into it. Not when there is just too much going on, and never enough time to really _think_ about what is going on in his own head. 

He follows John into his kitchen, leaning against the counter near the entrance with arms crossed over his chest comfortably as he watches the man move around with familiarity, finding it hard not to be pleased that John is here. Of everyone he would have liked to have broken his silent—but wholly firm—request to leave well enough alone today, John is probably the only one that the like isn’t entirely reluctant. There is something about John Watson that is entirely comfortable, moving around his kitchen, and that is another of those things he doesn’t like to think about, particularly. 

John takes two of the bottles of beer out of the case, but while he sets them aside, he doesn’t open them. It seems like the man is on some sort of mission, which has his eyebrows shooting up and watching John rather warily as the man puts the remaining beers in the fridge before turning towards him. Those blue eyes he’s spent far too much time watching are the color of the deep ocean on a clear day, and filled with determination. Unwittingly, his own eyes flicker to the clock on the stove. 

11:54. How had that happened? 

“There isn’t much time left,” John informs him, moving away from the counter, his movements slow and careful. As though he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. The thought is bizarre and sets him even more on edge. 

“Time left for _what_ , exactly?” he returns, bemused, eyebrows shooting up as he straightens from his leaning position, his arms falling away from his chest, fingers twitching at his side. 

“Oh, you know,” John muses as he moves forward, coming to a stop right in front of him, literally toe to toe. “Your birthday present.” 

If possible, his eyebrows shoot up higher, causing John’s lips to twitch, and if he can make that bloom into a full smile, he’d be one happy man, and that would be more than present enough. 

“Oh, you got me something, did you? Where ‘s it, then?” he teases back, voice light and amused. At least, that’s what he tells himself. As with so many other things, he’s trying to pretend that his voice wasn’t just the slight bit breathless, and that his heart wasn’t beating just the slightest bit faster.

Maybe he was having a heart attack or something. Good thing he has a doctor here with him. 

It was John’s turn to glance at the clock, reading the brightly lit ’11:59’ in blue, before those eyes are back on him. 

“ _Here_ ,” John breathes, hands reaching up to frame his face and pulling him down, even as the man surges up. 

Automatically, his arms go around John to support the man against him, to pull him in a little closer, to _hold_ him, as their lips move together. The kiss is just a little awkward, the angle a bit wrong, and they can’t seem to find a steady rhythm with each other. But such things come with practice, he knows. No first kiss is ever what is shown in movies; it’s never quite so perfect and easy as they make it seem. 

All the same, though, it is the _perfect_ present he could have gotten from John. And he would definitely like to take the time to practice with the man, to make their rhythm perfect, to find all the ways he can get John to make contented noises and noises of lust and sleepy noises and—well. He was getting ahead of himself, here. 

Slowly, after a long moment, John is pulling away. Only, not fully, just enough to put some space between their lips to be able to speak. Inexplicably, his eyes flick to the clock just past John’s ear. 

Midnight. The kiss had lasted barely a moment, and it was midnight, no longer his birthday, really. The turning of a new day, the promise of progression. 

“Happy birthday, Greg,” John breathes into the space between them, and the grin that stretches over his face in response is bright, wide. 

“Thanks, John,” he murmurs in return, pressing forward to brush his lips against John’s again, testing. Fleetingly. 

At least, that was the intention. Never let it be said that when John knew what he wants, he doesn’t mess about. It was rather refreshing, and it was definitely good in this case. 

At least now he knows that there will be quite a bit of practice, starting now. The conversation about what this would do to their relationship, whatever it was now, would come later. Right now, practice was definitely needed. Especially since he can now officially say that, with the start of this new technical year of his life, this next year was definitely looking promising.


End file.
